


And I Grew Up Just Like Him

by Unforth



Series: Prompt Fics [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Dean, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Businessman Dean, Busker Castiel, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homeless Castiel, Hopeful Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Musician Castiel, References to Drugs, Second Chances, Self-Harm, Therapy, abuse recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Furious with Castiel for lying to him, Dean issues an ultimatum: if you leave, don't come back.It's not until Castiel is gone, long gone, that Dean reflects and wonders which of them was really to blame for the problems in their relationship.





	And I Grew Up Just Like Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tellthenight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthenight/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a 2k prompt. *facepalm* But no regrets. This is a prompt fic for the amazing [tellthenight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthenight/pseuds/tellthenight), and I'm happy to go over length on her behalf. ;)
> 
> Thanks for all your support, tellthenight. I've been so happy to call you friend since I joined this fandom!! <3

“If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back!”

Cas stopped and turned toward Dean, eyes wide. Panting with fury, Dean met Cas’ gaze. The hurt in Cas’ expression, the disdain, the disgust, froze Dean’s hot anger to frigid fear in an instant.

“I mean it, Cas.” Despite Dean’s determination to stand firm, his voice quavered. Cas said nothing; he didn’t need to. There wasn’t a trace of affection on his face. Dean might as well have been looking at a stranger.

Cas had made his decision.

“Don’t you leave me, you son of a bitch!”

Cas shook his head.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Hefting a backpack containing meager personal belongings, lifting his guitar case, Cas pulled the door open, stepped into the hallway, and tugged it shut behind him.

His house keys sat on the table beside the door.

As Dean had commanded him, Cas didn’t intend to come back.

Quietly, without warning, without preamble, something in Dean’s chest collapsed. Agony, followed immediately by numbness, coursed through his body.

“Good riddance,” he muttered.

_He’ll be back. First time his stomach grumbles he’ll be right back on my doorstep begging me to feed him again._

_Maybe, if I’m feeling generous, I’ll give him some table scraps._

With a disgruntled snort, he wiped a tear from his eyes. He wouldn’t mourn, not after Cas misled him about being employed, not after Dean opened his home and his life to his boyfriend, not after Cas abandoned him despite everything Dean had done for him over the past year.

_But I’m the one who made it an ultimatum, a ‘choose-me-or-else.’ It didn’t have to be that way._

There was only one way to shut up Dean’s brain.

Heading to the liquor cabinet, Dean grabbed a fifth of Jack. Alcohol would do a fine job of drowning out that pathetic, meager voice.

_This was Cas’ fault. It was._

_Just gotta drink until I believe that._

* * *

In his heart, Dean had been _sure_ Cas would come back. He had to! Cas didn’t have a job, didn’t have a place to live, didn’t even have a damn cell phone. Everything he owned fit in a backpack, for fuck’s sake, aside from a drawer of clothing and an old toothbrush that he’d left behind.

After the first week without a sign of Cas crawling back in contrition, Dean tossed the toothbrush. The last thing he needed was a reminder of that…that…that _asshole_ every damn morning before he left for work and every damn evening before he slunk into his lonely, cold, over-large bed.

Dean couldn’t bring himself to empty the drawer.

_Cas will come back._

_Of course Cas will come back._

_He said he loved me!_

_And I said leave and never return._

_No! I said_ if _,_ if _he left! He chose to walk out that door!_

 _I said he was family! I said I needed him! And he left_ anyway _. Family doesn’t do that!_

_But God I miss him._

As days stretched into weeks, as weeks accumulated to a month, Dean’s anger dissipated, replaced with growing trepidation.

Cas _had_ to come back...

...except he hadn’t.

_Where is he staying? What’s he eating? What’s he wearing? It’s getting cold – is he safe? Is he frostbitten?_

When they’d met, Cas had been busking in the subway, playing virtuoso guitar for pennies and nickels, spending the money on food and weed and new strings.

Cas hadn’t wanted to give up his independence, even though that independence left him starving, homeless, and filthy. He’d given that up for Dean, acted like it was some huge sacrifice: moved in, found a job as a pencil pusher, reserved his playing for family gatherings and late nights lying tangled in the sheets together.

Cas had valued his independence.

_And I told him his sacrifice was worthless and he should be grateful that I was able to support him._

_What if...what if this was my fault?_

Cas hadn’t told Dean he was unhappy, hadn’t told Dean he’d lost his job, hadn’t told Dean anything was the matter.

_Why didn’t he tell me?_

The thought made him furious at first, but as Dean obsessed over it the days and weeks, slowly the thought morphed into something quieter, something far more dangerous.

Why _didn’t he tell me?_

_If he’d been comfortable with me, trusted me, he’d have confided in me. Once, he did._

_Then he stopped._

_What did I do that made Castiel change his mind, led him to feel that it wasn’t safe for him to tell me the truth?_

The question whispered through Dean’s mind every day, haunted his dreams every night. Nothing quieted that self-condemning voice; no amount of hard work, physical exertion, alcohol, anonymous sex, or distraction enabled Dean to escape himself. At first, he tried quashing the question, ignoring it, forcing it into a corner, stuffing it in a box, but it always appeared again, and slowly, slowly, answers started to come to Dean.

 _My temper is vile when I’ve had too much to drink_ , Dean’s thoughts pointed out helpfully after he had an argument with his brother about the recent increase in his alcohol consumption. “Binge drinking” failed as an excuse when Dean drank every night.

 _I stuffed Cas into my life without making any attempt to fit myself into his_ , Dean realized as he looked around his apartment and could see nothing but how empty his couch was when Castiel didn’t sit on it, how bare his refrigerator was with only food enough for one. He stared at his dining room table, reliving the conversation where he’d laughed in Cas’ face when Cas suggested he could make his share of the rent by continuing to play in subway stations.

 _I couldn’t leave it alone, though, oh no – I made enough to cover both of us..._ Dean paid the rent. Dean owned the furniture. Dean bought the groceries. Dean took them out to dinner. Dean paid for the train. Dean had bought every item of clothing in that damn drawer. ... _and I never let him forget how much he owed me, never let him forget that what he had, he had because of me, never suggested that the man he was, the man he’d been when I met him, the man he’d been when I’d first asked him out, was enough._

 _Fuck no. On the contrary, I constantly told him that who he’d been wasn’t good enough for me, and that if he didn’t change he’d never be good enough for me_.

The longer Dean reflected on their relationship, the worse he felt. He’d asked so much of Cas, and offered so little of himself.

 _I didn’t tell him I loved him._  

_I don’t._

_I just need him, and consider him family, and miss him like crazy – miss him more every day._

_I never told him I love him._

_I couldn’t even give him that much of myself._

_I could lie to him, lie to Sam, lie to Charlie and Aaron and Benny and everyone. For days, weeks, months, years, a fucking_ lifetime _, I could lie to myself, too._

_Not anymore._

_This is my fault_.

The conviction waxed and waned as the days past. Sometimes, drunk, belligerent, Dean railed against that condemning voice in his head. Of _course_ it hadn’t been Dean’s fault! He worked his _ass_ off, _had_ worked his ass off his whole life. He was a self-made man, Cas and Sam’s bullshit about _white male privilege_ aside, and he didn’t need some fucking freeloading stoner hippy mooching off him for eternity. Sometimes, it even seemed he won the argument with himself, that he’d convinced his whiny, self-deprecating inner self that just because he had a lifetime of conditioning from his dad that led him to automatically take the blame on his own shoulders, this _wasn’t his fault_.

 _Except that it is my fault_.

Sometimes, the counter attack came as a plaintive whisper, sometimes as a shout. Sometimes, it came in the middle of the night as he jolted out of a nightmare. Sometimes, it came midday as he stared at a computer screen. Always, it came from nowhere, when Dean was _finally_ sure he’d killed his worries.

_What would happen if, for only a moment, I seriously considered whether or not this is my fault?_

_There’s nothing to consider._

_Underneath the bravado, I know the truth._

_I couldn’t have driven Cas away more completely had I been trying_.

_It is, and always has been, my fault._

* * *

“Sam,” Dean croaked. He was exhausted. Cas was two months gone and the demons whispered poison in Dean’s mind constantly. _That’s not poison, that’s the truth. And that I can’t tell the difference any longer is precisely the problem._ He’d had some rough break-ups, but he’d never had this much trouble moving on, this much trouble letting go.

_Of course I’ve never had this much trouble. This time it’s my fault, and Castiel was different than Lisa or Aaron or Cassie or any of the others._

_Because..._

“Damn it, Dean, it’s 2 in the morning! Are you drunk?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“No, I...” Dean tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. The urge to get smashed, to get angry and glorify in how justified that anger was, was a constant itch under his skin. He didn’t dare give into it; when he was sober he could think straight, but if he drank anything it’d be booze. _Exactly. Let’s stop thinking straight. I hate what I recognize about myself when my thoughts get all logical_. “I think I need help, Sammy.”

“Dean...” breathed Sam.

“Fuck...no...never mind, forget I said anything. I’ll talk to ya, bro.” Dean flicked his finger across the screen and turned the phone off for good measure.

 _It was my fault_.

His willpower cracked.

He spiked a cup of water with vodka. All the punch of booze, all the appearance of watery virtue. Bonus, it tasted disgusting: no more, and probably much, much less, than Dean deserved.

 _My fault, it’s my fault – I want to get angry, but I can’t, because I know now, don’t I?_ The words taunted him, sing-song, on infinite repeat in his head. _My fault, all my fault, and I’ve admitted it to Sam. There’s no moving on, no coming back, no denying it ever, ever again._

The familiar anger buzzed at his skin, and Dean scratched at the itch, scratched at his arm, kept at it until red furrows dug into his skin. Oh yeah, the anger was still there, and it was entirely self-directed. Skin caught under Dean’s nails, tore until blood trickled down his arm, and every time he raked down his arm the words repeated.

_My fault._

Tear.

_My fault._

Tear.

_My fault._

Tear.

_My—_

A knock on the door interrupted Dean and he gasped and jerked his head up, blinking blearily. The walls looked like they were bleeding, reminded him uncomfortably of his one experience with acid.

_Just in my head. A hallucination, like the walls bleeding, and my arm bleeding, and my thoughts. All a delusion that this is my fault. It’s not. It was Castiel’s...Cas..._

A sob choked in his throat and he bit his lip in a vain effort to restrain it.

_Why didn’t you come back, Cas?_

“Dean?” Sam’s voice, loud and gruff, was called through the door.

Cas’ keys still sat on the table beside the door, because Dean couldn’t bring himself to move them, because he such an overconfident, egocentric ass that somehow he still believed that Cas would come back to him.

_He’s not coming back._

_I miss him so much!_

_I loved Castiel._

_I love Castiel._

_No. No, that’s impossible._

_It’s the absolute truth. For once in my damn life I’m going to be honest with myself._

  1. _fucking. love. Castiel._



_And while yes, he triggered that last fight by lying to me..._

_...what choice, really, did I give him? What would I have done, what would I have said, what indignities and cruel words would I have heaped on him if he’d told me the truth?_

“Dean, I’m coming in!”

_No, don’t, God, I can’t let you see me like this._

_I can’t let you see who I really am._

_Just like I couldn’t let Cas see who I really was._

_It’s not just Cas. I love my brother, too, and I’ve been driving him away too._

Hands landed on Dean’s shoulders and he gasped and looked up to meet Sam’s dark eyes. Concern had Sam’s brow furrowed; horror flickered over his face as he caught sight of Dean’s mangled arm, then his features evened.

“You’re okay,” Sam said, sounding like he was trying to convince Dean, like he was trying to convince himself.

“ ‘m not,” Dean mumbled, but the words were inarticulate, his lips gummy. His mouth was dry and tasted foul.

“You’ll be okay,” Sam repeated, gathering him in a rough hug.

“ ‘s my fault,” whispered Dean. “My fault...”

“What is?” asked Sam, dropping to a knee to before him. As tall as Sam was, with him on the floor and Dean on the couch they were nearly eye to eye.

Dean made a vague gesture; droplets of blood splattered on his sofa, his pant leg, Sam’s outstretched arm. “Everything.”

Sam opened his mouth to say something, snapped it shut again, and waited patiently for Dean to continue.

Fucking _hell_ did Dean want Sam to fill the silence.

Quiet stretched out between them.

_It’s my fault._

_I can never deny that again._

_But if I can’t say it aloud, if I can’t say more..._

Licking his lips, Dean sank into his brother’s gaze. “ ‘member how...Sammy, do you remember how dad always was?”

“Yeah, Dean,” said Sam. “Yeah, I do.”

“Why’d you never tell me I grew up just like him?”

“ ‘Cause you wouldn’t have heard me if I’d said it,” said Sam. He didn’t disagree, didn’t contradict, didn’t defend, and Dean’s stomach heaved. “And—” Hope that reassurance followed spiked through Dean so strongly that he gasped. “—because you’re not. Dad never asked for help. Dad never considered that it was his fault. For a long time...” Sam took a deep breath, then continued softly, solemnly, with an earnest expression on his face. “...for a long time I thought you _were_ the same as dad, but you called me tonight. You said you needed help. You’re _not_ dad, Dean. And of _course_ I’ll help you, same as I would have helped him if he’d ever asked.”

“I’m so sorry...” Dean whispered.

“And dad never apologized.”

“I have so much to apologize for,” admitted Dean. “But...but I’ll try. I’ll try, Sam. So don’t give up on me, okay?”

Sam had given up on dad. When dad had said to get out and never come back, Sam had listened, obeyed, and the two had never seen each other again.

Dean was his dad, and he’d repeated his dad’s mistakes.

He’d never see Cas again.

A sob tore from his throat, shame worsening it, and as sickened by himself as he was, Dean sobbed again, again, pressed his face to Sam’s shoulder and tried to quell tears in muscled flesh, stopped trying to fight the agony tearing him apart. Pain flared through his arm and he welcomed it. There wasn’t enough punishment in the world for the sins Dean had committed.

“It’ll be okay,” Sam whispered over and over, patting him on the back. “You’re going to be okay.”

* * *

“So what brings you here, Mr. Winchester?” asked the doctor.

“No!” Dean snapped. She looked up, a shrewd expression on her face, her pencil tapping at her legal pad. “Mr. Winchester...he’s...that’s my dad,” Dean explained sheepishly. “I’m not...I don’t wanna be...don’t _ever_ wanna become my dad. That’s, um, that’s why I’m here.”

“And what was your father like, Dean?” Dr. Barnes asked. The pencil continued to tap at the pad, but she didn’t take notes, didn’t take her gaze from him, and Dean appreciated the gesture. Objectively, he knew she was a professional, a doctor he’d hired to give a shit. She didn’t care about him. _Not like Cas did_. She didn’t know him. She’d tell him whatever would keep the money coming. That’s what his dad had always said about...

Dean took a deep breath, wet his lips, and said, “My dad always said therapy was a con,” he explained. “But then instead of anti-depressants he drank, and when he’d get smashed enough all that anger would come out and he’d take it out on me. Oh, he hit me, occasionally, and that fucking sucked but mostly he...he...” Dean licked his lips again. The air was too dry. Her gaze was too intense. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. “I...I don’t wanna be like him. But I am. Doc...I woke up one day and I...I saw _me_ , saw my shit behavior and I realized...like father like son. I’m...”

_It’s my fault. I made Cas feel like shit. I gave him an ultimatum. I drove him away._

_In all the same ways that dad drove Sam away._

_I know what word I use to describe what dad did to us._

_And if I use the same word for myself...I_ have _to use the same word._

 _I can’t fix the problem if I refuse to acknowledge it_.

He tore his gaze from hers, stared down at the whorl pattern on the carpet, channeled the self-condemning voice that played on endless repeat in his head.

“I’m abusive.”

“That’s a powerful thing to admit, and an extremely difficult one to acknowledge about oneself,” the doctor said after a beat pause. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Dean.”

“What, that’s _it_?” he snapped, incredulous, furious. Jerking his head up, he half-rose from his chair, but she continued to sit, continued to watch him impassively, continued to tap her legal pad. Steeling himself with difficulty, Dean sank back into the chair.

“You know that’s not ‘it.’ We have a lot of work to do, a lot to talk about. Are you ready, Dean?”

_God, no._

_But I’m as ready as I’ll ever be._

“Fuck...sure, let’s do this.”

* * *

The familiar twang of guitar strings drew Dean like a siren’s song. His usual commute had been graced by a violinist, a jazz flutist, a singer, a juggler, all manner of buskers in the past six months, but though he’d met Cas in his home station, and Cas had once played there every morning, Castiel had been gone for six months.

 _No, almost a year – gone since I told him that real men don’t make a living playing for shit in a piss-soaked train station, and then let him pound me in the ass. Couldn’t accept that I wanted that from him. Couldn’t take my own emasculation, so I emasculated him instead. Not that there was anything_ inherently _emasculating in letting him fuck me. But..._

This wasn’t his home station. A work meeting had pulled him across the city; new neighborhood, new platform, new train route, new office building...

...but oh, that familiar music.

A crowd was gathered around to listen, but Dean wove easily between them, moving as if in a dream.

Sure enough...

Absorbed in his playing, Cas was incomparably beautiful. Eyes closed, head thrown back, his shaggy hair brushed his shoulders, swaying in time to his hips, moving in time to his fingers dancing over the strings. The song was unfamiliar but beautiful, melancholy yet hopeful, and Dean knew he was projecting _– again_ – when he imagined the song spoke to lost love, spoke to what Cas had given up when he left Dean’s apartment.

That was total bullshit.

All Cas had done was escape, all he’d done was finally hit the limit of what he would tolerate from Dean.

Thank God Castiel had left.

Dean wished his wake up call could have come more gently, wished it could have happened in a way that didn’t cost him so much, but when he considered the alternatives...he’d been lucky. His dad hadn’t figured out his sins even when he’d lost a _son_ to his hate, abuse, and close-mindedness. John Winchester had mourned Sam, but he’d never admitted he was wrong, and he’d died without hearing Sam’s voice again. Sam refused to even attend the funeral.

All Dean had lost was the love of his life.

And now...now he knew the truth about himself.

The slowing of the notes promised the end of the song; the gathered audience, sensing the conclusion, applauded. Fearing Cas would open his eyes to acknowledge the crowd and shill for money, Dean repressed a squawk and darted around a corner, breathing hard.

He wanted to...

...but he wasn’t _better_ yet...he might never _be_ better...there was no end point, no goal, every day was a process of learning to police his behavior, do his best not to err, and accept contritely if he did...

...but hell did he miss Cas more and more.

_Love of my life my ass._

The applause died down, Cas’ quiet voice murmuring thanks loud in the confined space, and he launched into another song. From Dean’s vantage he could see part of the crowd breaking off and leaving, others coming down the long subway hall catching the sound and slowing to listen.

_This isn’t about what I want._

_This is about what Cas wants._

_I made all his choices last time. It’s his choice now._

Deliberately ignoring the filth on the floor, Dean dropped to his knees and set his briefcase down. Office supplies were neatly arranged in the various interior pockets; he pulled out a blank sheet of paper, a pen, and a paperclip. Closing the case again, he leaned on it and wrote,

_Dear Castiel,_

_I could write a fucking novel on all the ways I fucked up. I didn’t come looking for you; didn’t think I had the right to do so. Everything that happened was my fault. I see that now. I’m sorry. I was a controlling douche bag. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see it then, but I hit rock bottom, talked to Sam, and now I see a therapist twice a week. I’m sorry. I’m a total fucking work in progress, and no matter how hard I try, I’ll probably make at least some of the same mistakes again. It’s crazy for me to even write this, so don’t worry: I expect nothing. You owe me nothing. I am so fucking sorry, though, and if you ever wanted to talk about it, you know where to find me._

The urge to write _I love you_ was powerful, but even what he’d already written seemed manipulative, now that Dean recognized the signs of his own emotionally and psychologically abusive behavior. He’d crossed lines. So, hand shaking, he repressed the urge to admit what he’d only realized too late about his affections, signed his name, stashed the pen in the case, and dug his wallet from his pocket. There were a handful of twenties within, a ten, two fives and a one. When he’d first courted Cas, he’d lavished cash on him after every song, making it clear with a fifty just what Dean had to offer, and Cas had fallen for it. Now...Cas’ clothes were rags, his frame obviously thin beneath, and seeing him suffer made Dean’s heart ache, but he had to show that he’d changed.

Dean took out a one dollar bill and paperclipped the note to it.

There was another round of applause, another bustle as commuters moved on, and the start of third song. Glancing around the corner, Dean confirmed that Cas’ eyes were closed, hurried across the platform, deposited his money in the cash-laden open guitar case, and bolted away, headed toward his meeting, uselessly trying to wipe filth from his pants knees.

_That’s it. That’s all I can do._

_The rest is up to him._

* * *

“Wha...what?”

Mumbling, Dean sat up abruptly and nearly tumbled off the couch as his back twinged.

Fuck, he’d fallen asleep on the couch again.

Dr. Sexy was _still_ playing on repeat.

Unsure what had awoken him up, Dean grabbed the remote, shut off the episode, rose, and stretched. Booze no longer played a part in him passing out in the living room – he’d not had a drink since a couple weeks after he started seeing Doc Barnes – he was just tired, and his anxiety tended to ramp up when he slept alone in his bed.

Recognizing shit like that about himself? Abso-fraggin’-lutely _life changing_.

Still, the couch was shit for his spine and he was tired enough to sleep on the bed now. Knuckling the sore spot in his back, he turned toward the hallway leading to the bedroom.

A soft rap on the door arrested him.

Hesitant, he approached the door and peeped through the eyehole.

 _Castiel_.

With a gasp, he unlocked the door and jerked it open; the chain was still latched, the door rattled loudly as it hit the chain’s limit, and Dean felt like a fucking moron. Sheepish, he closed it, undid the chain, and pulled it open more gently.

“Hello, Dean,” said Cas.

“Cas.” Dean raked a hand through his hair. Cas had actually _come_. That...that was the last fucking thing Dean had expected. “Uh. Hey. Do you wanna...?” He gestured invitation to the apartment, hope making his heart beat wildly.

“No,” said Cas. Dean’s hopes crumbled. “I walked out this door, and I will never step back in this apartment. I will not meet with you on those terms.”

“That’s...that’s fair,” acknowledged Dean, deflating with a sigh. There was something unreadable to Cas’ expression, in his eyes. “Then why...why’re you here?”

“You apologized.”

“Yeah...”

“You never apologize.”

“I do now,” said Dean. It still wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, and surprisingly cathartic. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Nodding as if to himself, Cas blinked slowly, seemed to consider something, then said, “My terms.”

“Sure.”

“I have a tent on the riverbank. Come find me there tomorrow night, and we can talk. Otherwise...we had some good times, Dean, but I won’t put myself under your power again.”

“As you shouldn’t,” Dean agreed. “I’ll be there at 8.”

“No,” Cas said. “8:30.”

 _His terms_.

“8:30.”

The smile that broke over Castiel’s face was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen.

Thank God he had an appointment with his therapist at 4 the next day.

Dean did _not_ want to fuck this up again.

Nodding to himself again, Cas turned and walked down the hall, and Dean watched him go with a heavy heart.

 _But maybe, if I’m careful, if I use everything I’ve learned and do better, this can be the last time I ever have to watch him walk away from me_.

Feeling as if a vast weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Dean closed the door behind Cas, locked it, and headed to bed.

For the first time in six months...maybe for the first time _ever_...Dean slept peacefully.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> When they eventually get married, Dean will take the Novak last name so that no one will ever, ever, EVER call him Mr. Winchester again.
> 
> For ficlets, prompt opportunities, art, and more, come join me at 


End file.
